Dean's Concussion
by Noxbait
Summary: Tag to 12.18 "The Memory Remains." Overwhelming relief flooded Sam. His brother was alive - half frozen, hunched beside a puddle of dead pagan god, but alive. Dean lifted a hand in a brief wave of thanks and, for a fraction of a second, everything was ok. Then Dean slumped to the floor face first and the illusion shattered.


**Hello! So I've had this story sitting in the file for quite awhile now. Ever since the first time I saw the episode " _The Memory Remains,"_ I felt like we got cheated. Dean got thrown over a balcony, tied up in a meat locker, and got beat up by yet another monster. Maybe it's just me (although I doubt it lol), but I couldn't help but think we needed to see a lot more of the aftermath. :D **

**Takes place between the last scene at the meat packaging plant and the scene where they're in the bunker.**

* * *

 ** _Dean's Concussion_**

* * *

Overwhelming relief flooded Sam.

His brother was alive - half frozen, hunched beside a puddle of dead pagan god, but _alive_.

Dean lifted a hand in a brief wave of thanks and, for a fraction of a second, everything was ok. Then Dean slumped to the floor face first and the illusion shattered.

Heart pounding, Sam rushed to his brother's side. He shoved his weapon into his waistband and dropped to his knees, quickly checking his brother's pulse.

Steady and strong.

He remembered the scene back at the old Bishop mansion: the pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs, the broken banister. The only reason he'd had any confidence his brother had survived the fall was because his body wasn't on the ground. Which meant he'd either left or, far more likely, been taken. Finding him alive was nothing short of a miracle.

There was blood behind Dean's ear and Sam gently tilted his brother's head to get a better look at the injury. He grimaced. It wasn't pretty, but didn't look like it would need stitches.

With Dean still unconscious, Sam seized the opportunity to thoroughly assess him for any other injuries. The risk of broken bones was high, given the fall, and Sam wasn't taking any chances. A minute later, reassured that nothing was broken, he brushed a hand down his face, sighed and allowed himself to breathe.

"Ok, you're good," he said, although Dean wasn't listening.

No broken bones as far as he could tell. Just a head injury. A serious head injury. Dean's right cheekbone was already bruising and Sam had no way to know if it was from the initial fall or from a further beating by the now deceased god, Molech. Dean had already been on the ground when Sam first entered the cooler and it hadn't been because he was taking a nap.

Sam found himself shivering in the frigid cooler. More than anything he wanted to see his brother awake, but getting Dean out of the freezing cold had to take priority. The cold wasn't doing either of them any favors. So, as gently as possible, Sam grabbed his brother and dragged him out of the cooler.

"You need to lay off the burgers, dude," he said softly.

Burgers or not, unconscious people were dead-weight. His back strained in protest as he pulled Dean away from the cold and settled him on the hard ground. He spared a quick glance around the area, checking for any new signs of danger. There were none. A soft groan immediately drew Sam's attention back to his brother.

"Hey, Dean." Sam rested a hand against his brother's cheek, steadying him as he began to shift. "Easy."

The contact stilled Dean's restless movements and he let out a quiet sigh, Sam's name a whisper on his lips.

"Yeah, it's me." Sam kept his voice a whisper, too.

Dean's hands moved feebly, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Come on, wake up."

But Dean didn't seem inclined to follow directions which was concerning. Sam narrowed his eyes and started thinking about hospitals. Checking Dean's pulse again, he was relieved to still find it steady. Continued unresponsiveness was not such a good thing, though. Keeping his hand against his brother's head, Sam tapped his cheek.

"You need to wake up."

Still nothing.

"Dean." Sam raised his voice.

This time he received a groan and a slight shifting under his hand.

Breathing out, heartbeat slowly returning to something close to normal, Sam said, "Ok. That's good. Keep working on it. Really need to see you awake, man."

"Sam." Dean's voice was muffled and slurred. He tried to pull away, but his movements were too weak to be effectual.

"Yeah. Don't try to move yet. Just open your eyes, ok?"

Dean frowned, eyes squeezed shut. His skin was cold and clammy under Sam's fingers. The cut behind his right ear was sluggishly bleeding again, probably because he wasn't half-frozen anymore. Sam waited, trying to be patient. Waking from a concussion wasn't pleasant, nor easy.

It took a few more seconds, then Dean's eyes slid open. Even in the dim light of the warehouse, Sam could all too easily see that his pupils weren't the same size. Crap. Sam shook his head, watching his brother struggling to stay awake.

After a few false starts, Dean managed to keep his eyes open for more than a split second. It took a lot longer for him to focus. Not that he was focusing very well.

"Sammy?"

"Hey. How you doin'?"

Dean groaned, paling even though he had yet to move. "Head."

"Yeah. You took some bad hits."

"Bad?" Dean's fingers went to the side of his head.

"Don't touch it. Yes, bad." Sam guided Dean's hand away from his head. "You remember what happened?"

"Angry god. Pig god...no, goat god." Dean squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds. "It's dead, right?"

"It's dead."

"Good job."

Sam shook his shoulder. "Don't fade out on me. Your pupils are screwed up, Dean."

"No hospital."

"I think I'll be the one making that judgement call."

Dean groaned, slapping a hand out blindly. "Too many words."

"Open your eyes." Once Dean had, Sam asked, "How many fingers?"

"Two," Dean said, eyes widening comically.

"Wrong."

"Shit."

"Exactly."

For a moment, they were both silent, staring at each other. Sam kept one hand on the side of Dean's face. The other went to his phone in his pocket. He glanced around the warehouse, assessing the scene yet again. While he was kneeling by his half-dead brother, the sheriff was still over by his _dead_ _half_ -brother. There was a mess to clean up. Calling for an ambulance right now would be sticky, but Sam wasn't sure he cared.

"Help me up," Dean mumbled, his words still slurring together. He was blinking hard and starting to push himself into a sitting position.

Sam grabbed his arm and helped him up. The color drained from Dean's face with every inch of progress they made. By the time they were done, he was sheet white and sweating. Sam shifted, getting a better grip on his brother, and wondering how far the hospital was.

"Feels worse."

"Worse?" Sam's mouth went dry and he leaned closer.

"Everything hurts," Dean elaborated. He blinked slowly, right hand shakily moving to press against his hip. "I get kicked?"

"Probably. I'm sure Molech knocked you around. But you also went over a stair rail at that house."

"Oh yeah." Dean grimaced raising his hand then letting it slide in a downward slope like a crashing airplane. "Sudden stop."

"Yes," Sam said, distracted as he pulled his brother's coat aside and tugged his shirts up.

"What're you…"

"Ribs. You feel anything broken?" Sam asked, rapidly beginning to doubt his previous assessment.

"Nothin's broke."

The words didn't stop Sam's hands from shaking as he ran them over his brother's sides and back. Nothing gave way to his gentle touch. Even so, Dean was likely going to be bruised to hell in a few hours. Sam narrowed his eyes, assessing Dean's face. He was still fighting to keep his eyes open, but he was a little more successful now that he was sitting up.

Sam grabbed his shoulder again. "You doing alright?"

"Swell." Dean swallowed hard, paling even further.

"Yeah. You look it." Sam rolled his eyes. "You gonna hurl?"

"Maybe."

"Ok."

Sam kept a hand on his brother's shoulder and gently pushed his head down toward his knees. They sat there in silence for a few seconds until Dean patted him on the knee and straightened slightly.

"Get me up."

Sam looked around and found a pile of crates stacked up a few feet away. That was all the _up_ Dean was going to get for the time being. Sam didn't even know if he would make it that far.

Slowly, they got to their feet and it was a good thing the stack of crates wasn't more than a few feet away or they wouldn't have made it. As it was, Sam didn't know if trying to move his brother had been such a good idea. Dean collapsed onto the stack and Sam was the only thing holding him up.

"Dean…"

"No hospital." Dean put both hands to his head, elbows on his knees as he said, "Give me a minute."

"Ok."

Sam held onto him for a moment longer, until he was somewhat convinced Dean wasn't going to fall off the stack of crates, then walked back toward the cooler. He grabbed a slab of meat in a package and returned to his brother's side.

"Dean?"

He didn't say anything, but glanced up wearily and accepted the frozen steak. Pressing it to his bruised face, Dean straightened a bit and closed his eyes. Sam crouched next to him, giving him a few minutes of silence to recover. A look across the warehouse revealed the sheriff hadn't moved.

 _They_ needed to move. To deal with the mess. Help the sheriff clean up and cover up. Sam blew out a slow breath and rubbed his eyes, then looked back at his brother.

Dean seemed more stable, but he obviously wasn't in any hurry to move. He still had the steak pressed to his face, other hand braced against his knee.

"Hey," Sam asked softly. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I just went twelve rounds with a god." Dean's tone was trying for humor but he just sounded wiped out. "So, you know...normal."

"Yeah." Again, Sam's attention strayed to the other side of the room.

Sheriff Bishop lifted his head, and stared back at Sam. "You should go."

"No, sheriff, uh, we can help clean up," Sam said.

"No." The sheriff shook his head slowly. "This...I'll take care of it. It's on me. This? This is my legacy."

It was heartbreaking. Utterly heartbreaking. The man was a wreck, his life was a wreck. All he'd tried to do was the right thing. Tried to change, to fix, an evil family legacy that he'd never wanted to be a part of. He was bearing that burden and always would.

Sam sighed, knowing there wasn't anything they would be able to do to help the sheriff at this point. Either the man would recover from this, or he wouldn't. At least the monster was gone and there would be no more human sacrifices.

Turning back to his brother, Sam asked, "Dean? You think you…"

"Let's get out of here," Dean whispered, straightening again although he made no move to stand up yet.

Sam stepped closer and got a hand under his brother's elbow and gently eased him to his feet. The change in altitude was just as difficult on Dean as sitting up had been, but he didn't pass out. Barely. Sam pulled his arm over his shoulder when it became obvious Dean wasn't going to stay upright without assistance. He held onto him for a full minute before Dean seemed steady enough to take a step forward. The steak hit the floor as they started moving.

By the time they reached the Impala, Dean could barely put one foot in front of the other and his eyes were squeezed closed. Sam got the passenger side door open and eased his brother onto the edge of the seat. Dean went without a hint of protest. He rested his elbows against his knees, lowered his head and groaned.

Sam crouched next to him, reassessing yet again and reconsidering the possibility of finding a hospital whether Dean wanted to or not. Dean was swallowing hard and Sam stayed close, but just far enough away to hopefully avoid the mess if his brother started throwing up. After a few silent moments, though, Dean laboriously straightened. His skin was still clammy and he hadn't regained any color, but he wasn't puking. He glanced at Sam and the glance revealed his pupils were still not the same size.

"I'm fine," Dean mumbled, slowly turning. He dragged one foot and then the other into the car, slouching down and resting his head on the back of the seat. "Home."

Sam stood up, gave his brother a pat on the shoulder, then closed the door. They would get home. But not tonight. He just wasn't going to tell his brother that, yet. Sam got behind the wheel, searched for the keys, then started the car. It was almost a twelve hour drive back to Lebanon and there was no way in hell Sam was going to put his brother through a car trip like that with a severe concussion.

So he ignored the topic and simply got them on the road. He stopped at the motel and grabbed their gear in seven minutes flat. Dean had fallen asleep during the short trip from the warehouse and Sam let him be. He'd allow him to sleep a little longer before trying to rouse him to take some painkillers and drink some water.

After they'd been back on the road for about an hour, Sam pulled over and dug out a bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of water from his duffle bag. Getting back behind the wheel, he set the bottles on the dashboard and turned to his brother. Dean hadn't so much as stirred from the moment he'd fallen asleep, but his breathing and pulse were stable; something Sam had checked at least two dozen times in the last hour.

"Dean?" He kept his voice low. "Dean, need you to wake up a little."

It took a full minute of gentle prodding before Dean's eyes slid open.

"S'mmy?"

"Right here," Sam said, leaning forward to try to get in his brother's line of vision. "How're you doing?"

"Mmm."

Sam smiled a little. It wasn't an answer, but on the other hand, it _was_ an answer. He squeezed his brother's neck gently and said, "I've got some water and Tylenol."

Dean's eyes flickered open briefly, then he said, "Not yet."

"You feeling sick?"

"Hmm."

"You think you're going to throw up?"

"Maybe."

It was a repeat of their earlier conversation and Sam didn't feel reassured at all. They both fell silent. Sam didn't want to rush his brother. He was at least semi-coherent at the moment. He was keeping the hospital option in reserve if Dean's status worsened. For now, though, Sam thought maybe getting him settled in a bed for a good night's sleep might be enough. That and some painkillers when Dean felt like he was able to take them.

After a few moments, Dean shifted, rolling his head toward Sam although his eyes were closed. "Home?"

"Yeah, Dean, we're heading home." Sam squeezed his leg. "Long way to go."

Dean waved a hand. "You can drive. I'm...good."

Sam snorted. "You're not good."

"Had headaches before, man."

"Yeah," Sam acknowledged, starting the car. "I know you have. You've had concussions before, too. Doesn't mean they don't still suck."

"They still suck."

Smiling briefly, Sam got them back on the road.

He drove for three more hours before finding a motel. In those three hours, he'd pulled off once for Dean to throw up and once to get gas and an ice pack. Dean was still holding the ice pack, still mostly awake, when Sam parked the car.

"Home?" Dean asked, without opening his eyes or moving.

"Not quite. Sit still for a minute, ok?"

"Mmhm."

Sam patted his shoulder, knowing Dean wasn't likely to go anywhere without help. He ran into the motel office and paid for a room. Getting back into the car, he found Dean was where he'd left him and didn't look any worse for wear. Sam drove the car around the side of the building and parked as close to their room as he could.

Dean wasn't moving, so Sam didn't disturb him. Instead, he gathered their gear and unlocked the door to the motel. Once inside, he dumped their bags on the table and pulled back the covers on one of the beds. Leaving the lights off, he hurried back to the Impala. His brother was blinking and struggling to sit up when he arrived.

Dean caught sight of him and pushed the door open. Sam put a hand out against Dean's shoulder when he started to move.

"Sit still for a minute," Sam instructed, leaning down.

"Where're we?"

"About four hours out from Tomahawk."

Dean glared at him weakly. "Not home."

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, Dean, not home. Home is still like eight hours from here…"

"So?"

"So we're not driving eight hours after what you've gone through."

"I'm fine."

"You're really not. Come on."

Dean glared at him, threw the ice pack at him, then cursed him out a few dozen times. Sam ignored all of it and carefully peeled Dean off the seat. He was unsteady, but at least he didn't fall over or throw up. Sam was taking what he could get. Dean pushed the car door closed, then they made their way into the room. Halfway to the bed, Dean started to pull away.

"Where…" Sam started, then broke off and focused on getting his brother to the bathroom when he heard him gagging.

They almost made it in time.

Dean lost his battle a few steps away from the toilet. Sam didn't let go of him and didn't stop moving even as he sidestepped the splatter of vomit. He flipped the toilet lid up and hurried to brace his brother's chest before Dean could crash against the porcelain. Sam cringed as his brother's knees hit the ground hard. Kneeling down, he wrapped an arm around Dean's chest and held him as he vomited. The sound alone had Sam swallowing hard. He looked away, free hand rubbing circles on his brother's back. Dean's muscles strained under his touch. He knew exactly what it felt like to be this seriously concussed. It was pure misery and he hated that his brother had to endure even more pain.

Dean made a choking noise and Sam tuned back in. Shifting his grip, he pulled his brother up and smacked him on the back hard enough to clear whatever Dean had been choking on. It unleashed another torrent of vomiting and ripped a broken sob of pain from Dean's lips. Realizing he'd probably just hit a tender spot on Dean's back, Sam offered a few heartfelt apologies that Dean was too miserable to pay attention to.

A moment later, Dean went completely boneless.

Sam immediately tightened his grip and pulled his brother up before he could faceplant in the bowl. Dean fell back against him, sagging in his arms. His breathing was too fast and strained. He was drenched in sweat and his face had gone corpse grey. Sam's anxiety level skyrocketed, and he had to remind himself this was pretty much par for the course with a bad head injury.

For a long moment, he just sat there, supporting his brother's weight and feeling him breathe. Once Dean's breathing began to ease, Sam started thinking about next steps. Clean up, medicate, and get Dean into bed were the priorities. He looked at his brother more closely. If Dean was even conscious, it was _barely._ His eyes were closed and he hadn't moved at all.

As carefully as he could, Sam slipped out from behind his brother. He kept a firm hold on Dean, saving him from slumping straight to the floor, and gently wedged him between the wall and the edge of the tub. Dean remained limp, not stirring despite all the movement. One hand still braced against his brother's chest, Sam used his other hand to gently ease Dean's head up a few inches.

And then the process of rousing him began yet again.

"Dean?"

He was surprised when his very first call elicited a response. Dean tilted his head against Sam's hand and his eyes slid opened. He didn't say anything and he was obviously not completely with it, but it was a lot more than Sam had expected.

The pounding of his heart eased a degree and Sam said softly, "Stay here, ok?"

Dean didn't reply, but his eyes remained opened and he managed to hold his head up when Sam let go of him. A careful assessment showed that his pupils were closer to the same size. Somewhat reassured, Sam squeezed his shoulder, then moved away. Flipping the lid down on the toilet, he flushed it, then grabbed a washcloth and a towel from the stack on the counter. He dropped the towel over the mess on the floor, and got the washcloth wet.

Turning back to his brother, he knelt down and carefully wiped Dean's face and neck off. Dean didn't fight him on it which was a clear indication of how lousy he felt. Even when Sam tugged his jacket and stained shirts off, Dean didn't protest. He shivered once he was shirtless, though, and Sam knew it was time to get him up.

"Let me do all the work."

Dean just sat there looking faint. Sam smiled ruefully as Dean shifted his legs and they started to pull him upright. It was much more difficult than it had been to get him off the floor at the warehouse, but finally he was on his feet, leaning heavily against Sam. After allowing a moment for him to get his bearings, such as they were, Sam pulled him forward and toward the bed.

"Doing good," he coached as they drew closer. "Almost there."

Sam counted all his blessings twice that Dean managed to stay on his feet and made it to the bed without incident. Easing him down, Sam tried to keep him sitting up, but Dean pulled away and groaned as his head landed on the pillow. Leaving him be, Sam got his boots off and lifted his legs onto the bed. Dean curled up with both hands pressed against his head as Sam pulled the covers over him.

Returning to the bathroom for a fresh wet washcloth, Sam stepped over the mess on the floor. He'd have to clean it up, but for now it could wait. So he squeezed the washcloth out and left the bathroom.

He carefully sat on the edge of the bed and said, "I'm gonna clean up your head. Stay still."

Dean's only acknowledgement was to shift one hand so Sam could access the bloodstained cut. The blood had dried and Sam wasn't worrying about cleaning it up entirely right now. That could come later. He just needed to get a better look to reconfirm his earlier assessment. Blotting up some of the blood, he satisfied himself that it didn't need stitches.

"Think you can take something?" Sam asked, brushing a hand through his brother's hair, searching for any other injuries.

"No." Dean's whisper was hoarse. Pained.

"Ok."

Sam set the washcloth aside, then rested his hand on the back of Dean's neck. Carefully, he started massaging the tight muscles. Not daring to put too much pressure into it, Sam kept up the gentle massage as he worked his way to his brother's shoulders. Dean's total lack of protest was as good as a plea for him to continue, so Sam did until Dean fell asleep.

And then he sat there for a long time, hand on his brother's shoulder, studying him in the pale light.

Another close call. A lifetime of close calls and yet they never got easier to handle.

Fear had struck him as soon as the cellar door had locked, trapping him from his brother. It exploded when he got out of the cellar and discovered Dean was missing. Pressing his fingers to his own throbbing head, Sam took a few steadying breaths.

"He's fine," he whispered to himself. "He's gonna be ok."

And he would be. He'd have a massive headache for the next day or so, but he'd be ok. Sam tugged the covers higher over Dean's shoulders and finally pushed himself up from the bed. Dean didn't stir. Reassured, Sam forced himself to clean up the mess in the bathroom.

That mission accomplished, Sam went back for another assessment of his brother then started thinking about dinner.

He hadn't eaten in hours, but he really didn't have an appetite. Deciding he might as well try to get some sleep while he could, Sam checked on his brother. Again. Still sleeping. Pulse and breathing still steady.

Since there wasn't anything more he could do for Dean at the present, Sam set an alarm for two hours and collapsed on top of the other bed.

* * *

The headache was so bad Dean fumbled a hand to his nose to check if he was bleeding. His hand came away dry, but it wasn't much of a reassurance. His brain could be bleeding inside his skull and just not leaking out his nose quite yet. Even so, it hadn't been the headache that drew him out of the blackness of unconsciousness.

He groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was move. If he didn't, though, his bed was going to get wet and that level of indecency was something he wasn't about to suffer through, even if his head exploded as a consequence of moving. So he pushed himself half an inch from the pillow and almost threw up.

"Dean?"

"Don't yell," Dean whispered, his voice sounding like a shout to his own ears.

Logically, he knew Sam hadn't yelled. Probably hadn't even spoken above a whisper himself, but everything was amplified. His _breathing_ was too loud. His blood was pulsing like a thundering waterfall and he wished he could turn it off. Of course, turning it off would result in far worse problems than a shattering headache, but right now he really didn't care.

"Dean?" This time Sam's voice was so low it was almost inaudible.

Almost inaudible and _much_ appreciated.

Dean swallowed hard and reached out blindly. Sam caught his hand and squeezed.

"What do you need?" Sam whispered.

The heaviest duty painkiller known to man would have been wonderful, but Dean was going to lower his standards considerably. He whispered back, "Bathroom."

Sam didn't say another word, just worked slowly and gently to get him upright. Dean didn't even consider resisting his brother's assistance. His head was swimming and the entire world was moving. He didn't even have his eyes open. Sam's hand was cool against his overheated cheek and he wasn't the least bit embarrassed to lean into the comforting touch.

After a few silent moments, Sam must have sensed he was ready to move, because he eased him to his feet and supported his weight when Dean couldn't do it himself. Once he was a little steadier, they moved forward. He kept his eyes closed until the carpet under his socked feet gave way to tile.

Squinting even though every light in the motel seemed to be off, Dean reached out for the counter and pulled away from his brother. Sam didn't fight him on it. Didn't say anything. He just pulled the door half closed and backed away. Too dizzy to be grateful, Dean concentrated on the task at hand.

By the time he'd finished, his legs wobbled like jello and he had both hands braced on the counter. Panting, he closed his eyes, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as the room started swaying. He forced himself to look down at the too bright sink in the too dark bathroom, hoping it would stabilize him. It did help him keep track of which way was up and which way was down, but it did nothing for the nausea.

His stomach turned inside out and he would've cracked his skull on the faucet if miraculously well-timed hands hadn't been there to catch him in the nick of time. Even as he relished the support, he couldn't help but wonder how Sam had known. It was as comforting as it was disturbing.

Mercifully, he didn't have much in his stomach and the round was a short one. Even so, by the time he'd finished, he was contemplating the merits of hitting the floor. It would suck, but it still might be better than trying to make it back to his bed.

But the strong, silent support at his side wasn't onboard with that plan. Sam didn't say a single word but mopped his face with a cool washcloth, then guided him out of the bathroom. The next thing he knew, Dean was flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Sam."

"Yeah?" The bed dipped next to him as Sam sat down.

"How y'doin'?"

Sam snorted. "How'm I doing?"

"Mmm." Dean squinted at his brother. Weakly, he waved his fingers and mumbled, "Y'look...blurry."

Sam's blurry head shook back and forth and Dean was pretty sure he was smiling. A gentle hand patted his chest then rested against his collar bone. It grounded him and a little of the fuzziness faded.

"I'm not blurry," Sam whispered.

"Kinda are." Dean closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against them.

"I'm not even gonna ask how you are, because you'll just lie to me anyway."

"I feel like shit." Dean could picture Sam's shocked expression. He hated to admit it, but what was the point in lying?

The pressure on his chest eased slightly, but Sam didn't move his hand as he said, "I'm thinking we need to go to the hospital."

"No."

"Dude. you just told me you feel like shit. That's a red flag in my book."

Dean took a slow deep breath through his nose and breathed it out even slower through pursed lips. His heartbeat was easing beneath his brother's hand. After a moment, he said, "It's just a headache."

"It's just a concussion."

"Yeah. Exactly."

Lowering his hand, Dean kept his eyes closed as he asked, "Time's it?"

"You've been out for an hour and a half."

 _Well, crap._ This was going to be a long night.

"Think you can try some Tylenol?"

"Not sure."

Sam sighed and his hand moved away. The bed moved as he rose and walked away. The water turned on in the bathroom and a moment later a cool cloth was settled over his eyes. Dean took another slow breath and, despite the pounding of his head, fell back to sleep.

The next time he woke up, birds were tweeting outside and sunlight was brightening the edges around the windows. Dean's movements were sluggish as he rubbed his eyes and tried to sort himself out. He'd slept and the pain in his head had diminished from a shattering agony to a throbbing agony. It was improvement. Not much improvement, but Dean was taking what he could get.

The light hurt his sensitive eyeballs, but he refused to close his eyes. He'd been out of it for long enough now if it was already morning. Everything from yesterday was fuzzy. No, not fuzzy, completely dark. He vaguely could picture some aspects of the hunt although most of it was blank. His trip to the bathroom last night was a little clearer, sort of.

It was clear enough for him to remember he had a brother.

"Sam?"

His voice sounded distorted, muffled. Licking his lips, Dean squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Tilting his head to the right, he blinked a few times to bring the room into focus. What he could see of it was empty and if Sam hadn't answered him, he wasn't there. A bit of alarm filled him until he tuned into the sound of the shower.

Relieved, he relaxed into the mattress, rolling to his side. His stomach twinged a bit, but he didn't throw up which was an improvement. He stared at the other bed. The covers were slightly depressed, but obviously had never been pulled back. Someone had slept or - more likely - _not_ slept, on top of the covers last night.

The thought bothered him. Bothered him, and yet comforted him at the same time. He yawned and closed his eyes, pressing his aching head into the pillow. Sam wasn't supposed to sit up all night watching over him. That wasn't how it worked. Wasn't how it was _supposed_ to work.

But maybe it was ok sometimes.

Dean smiled a little. It wasn't easy, but it was getting a little easier to give up some of the control he'd always clung to. Allowing Sam to take care of him had never been easy, but right now it didn't seem like such a big deal. He closed his eyes and waited.

He slipped into a light doze, but woke up when he heard the bathroom door open.

"Dean?"

"Hey." He tried to sound more awake than he really was.

Sam sat down on the other bed, his voice thoughtfully low, "How're you doing this morning?"

"Better."

"Yeah?" Sam's expression brightened. "You slept the rest of the night."

Dean rubbed his eyes, not quite ready to try to sit up yet. He asked, "You sleep at all?"

"Yeah. Some." Sam yawned and rubbed his own eyes. He leaned forward, analyzing. "You look terrible."

"Not gonna lie. I've felt better. But I also feel better. Than last night," he clarified.

"Good. That's good."

"I'm ready to go home, Sam."

Sam smiled and shook his head. "You don't look ready to do anything."

Dean closed his eyes and shrugged his shoulder. "I'm not staying here all day."

"No one said anything about all day."

"Ok then." Dean started pushing himself upright.

He received a helping hand and didn't fight it off. Just as he'd done the previous night, Sam steadied him until he stopped wavering. Sitting up left him dizzy and nauseated, but it wasn't as bad as it had been. After a moment, when he got his eyes open again, he met his brother's gaze.

As bleary as he was, he could all too easily read the worry in Sam's eyes. He just didn't have the ability to speak yet or he would have reassured him that he was fine. Because he _was_ fine. Mostly.

Once the spinning slowed, Dean said, "I'm good."

"Uh huh." Sam didn't sound the least bit reassured. His eyes were pinched into a pained frown that spoke of a sleepless night and too much worrying. Shaking his head, he ran his hands through his wet hair and said, "I got out of that cellar...I'd heard you fall, Dean. I didn't know it was you, but...I got out there and you were gone and there was blood and…"

"Hey. I'm ok." Dean leaned forward, hands against his knees as he swayed. "Sammy, I'm fine."

Sam sucked in a huge breath and nodded. "I know. I do. It was just...close."

"I'll say. That thing smelled like a hundred years worth of rot," Dean said, grimacing at the thought. And then he grimaced at his own scent. "I need a shower."

"Maybe you should…"

"Do you really want to spend, how many hours is it?"

"Uh...nine. Eight."

Dean nodded, his brains rattling around painfully. "Eight hours. Do you want to spend eight hours in a car with me smelling like rotten meat and wet dog?"

"Ugh." Sam wrinkled his nose. "No."

"Ok." Dean took a deep breath of his own. "So I'm gonna shower."

"Wait."

"For?" Dean asked, but sat still.

Sam was back and forth across the room so fast it made his head swim. Dean blinked at him and the glass of water. The sight of it left him licking his lips. He hadn't realized how parched he was. His hand shook a little as he took it, but he didn't spill any. Once he'd taken a few sips, Sam was holding out his hand again.

Two painkillers were offered and Dean accepted them. He was still queasy, but it was a little better and the medication would go a long way to taming his still pounding head. Sitting there sipping the water, he watched as Sam gathered up his gear and clean clothes and went into the bathroom.

"You get dizzy or something," he was saying, bustling around the bathroom, "holler, ok? You don't need to fall again."

Dean didn't have time to reply before Sam was back in front of him, his pinched expression even more pinched.

"What?" Dean asked, setting the glass on the nightstand.

"Does anything feel broken?" Sam asked, looking him up and down. "I should check again. You were really out of it…"

"Dude, I'm fine." Dean knocked Sam's hand away. "Trust me. I'm bruised and sore as hell, but nothing's broken."

"Are you-"

"I'm sure. I'd tell you, ok? I'd tell you."

Sam studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Ok."

Dean smiled. "Ok. Give me a hand up?"

"Yeah."

And all he needed was a hand. Dean's legs were still a little wobbly, but the room didn't go dark and his knees didn't give way. Once he was standing, Sam did another quick assessment, then, finding him stable, backed off. Dean was grateful. Both that he could stand unassisted and that his brother wasn't pulling a muscle worrying about him.

Again.

Dean made his way to the bathroom and closed the door behind him without locking it.  
He knew better. It was one of those unwritten rules they never talked about. If one of them had a head injury or serious bleeding, locking the bathroom door was unacceptable.

He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror and winced. Yeah, maybe Sam had a decent reason for being worried. Touching his cheek, he traced the bruising back to the cut behind his ear. He couldn't see it but since Sam hadn't come after him with the suture kit, he knew it didn't need stitches.

The light was painfully bright but he couldn't turn it off because showering in the dark was fine, but showering in the dark with a concussion was not. Turning away from the mirror, he stayed close to the counter as he started peeling off his jeans.

And oh boy did he ever smell like rotted meat and wet dog. He gagged and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. The sensation faded, thankfully and he kicked the jeans away. Bracing a hand on the wall, he made his way slowly to the shower.

Climbing in under the stream, he took a moment to bless his brother for not having used up all the hot water. The process of cleaning up both exhausted and invigorated him. There was part of him that wanted to simply admit he didn't feel up to a car trip and curl up back under the covers and take advantage of little brother provided room service.

The other part of him, though, knew he could push through and get back to the bunker and on to the next thing on the list. It was that more wakeful part of him that won by the end of his shower. Toweling off wore him out, though, and by the time he was dressed, the exhausted, concussed side of him was one again screaming for a flat surface to lie down on. Preferably one with a pillow and in close proximity to a brother who would wait on him hand and foot.

Sighing, Dean straightened his collar and brushed a hand through his hair. He was as ready as he was going to get. So he pushed the door open and stepped back out into the room.

Sam looked up from where he was sitting at the table. To his credit, he didn't jump out of his seat. He just asked, "You doing alright?"

"Peachy." Dean wavered his way to the edge of his bed.

"Uh huh." Sam closed the laptop and slid it into his bag. "Breakfast?"

"Maybe in a few hours?"

"Ok. We'll take things slow." He stood up and looked around the room and then into the bathroom.

Dean just massaged the back of his neck and let his brother pack up his gear including his smelly laundry.

"Sam?" he called out, glancing around the room.

"Yeah?" Sam was back in a heartbeat, shoving dirty laundry into Dean's bag. "What's up?"

"Keys?"

Sam's jaw dropped and he knocked Dean's extended hand aside. "You're not getting them anytime soon."

"Sam. I'm driving."

"No you're not."

Dean huffed. "I'm fine. I can drive."

"Did you look at yourself in the mirror?"

Dean shrugged.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Would you let me drive if I looked like you do?"

"Absolutely not."

"Seriously?" Sam's eyebrows rose. "But it's ok for you to drive when you're white as a sheet?"

"Sure. And I'm not white as a sheet."

"Why would it be ok for you to drive and not for me? And you're _ashen_ , dude."

Dean rolled his eyes this time. "Because I can. And I'm not ashen, either. You're exaggerating."

"Dean, you're not driving. End of story. If you wouldn't let me drive with a concussion, there's no way I'm letting you, either." Sam started picking up their gear. "You still look like you can barely keep your eyes focused and don't even try to tell me your head isn't pounding."

"Sam."

But Sam completely ignored him and walked out of the room. Dean stared at the closed door. He tried to pinpoint the moment he'd lost control of the situation, but his muddled brain wasn't up to such complicated thought processes. So he metaphorically threw up his hands in surrender and resigned himself to riding shotgun at least for the first leg of the journey. Rubbing his temples, Dean snorted.

Who was he kidding? Sam wasn't going to give him the keys for at least the next two days. In all honesty, he didn't care. He hurt. Everywhere. Everything from his knees to his head, to be specific. He was ridiculously grateful his brother was in one piece and able to shoulder the burden of getting them back to the bunker safely. Not that he'd _tell_ Sam that, of course.

Dean smiled to himself, straightening and staring at the door. It took a little longer for his brother-hen to reappear than he'd expected. Just about ready to get to his feet and head out on his own, the door opened and Sam was looking him up and down. Again.

"Nothin's changed," Dean said, unable to hide his smile. "I'm still upright and fully conscious."

Sam returned the smile and shook his head. "You sure you want to go?"

"I'm sure I don't want to _stay_."

A pair of sunglasses landed on the bed next to him. Grabbing them, he looked over at his brother.

"It's not exactly a rainy day, man." Sam sounded apologetic as if he had _specifically_ ordered a grey, cloudy day and instead received a bright, sunshiny one instead.

Dean put the sunglasses on and pushed himself upright.

As expected, a hand was there to steady him. Dean didn't bother arguing with Sam on the way to the car. His halting steps weren't fooling either of them; the ground was less than steady under his boots. But he didn't fall over and Sam didn't have a coronary, so everything worked out in the end.

Gratefully, he settled into the leather seat. He hated that it wasn't the _driver's_ seat, but he'd already lost that argument so no use going for a second round. Sam closed the door thoughtfully, which was to say he didn't outright slam it. There wasn't anything about his Baby that Dean didn't love. Except perhaps her heavy, creaky doors when he had a concussion.

As Sam rounded the car, Dean allowed himself a heavy sigh. All the activity had already left him exhausted and hurting. Driving for hours on end did not sound appealing, but neither did staying in an ugly motel room in the backwoods of nowhere. He sat up straight as Sam got behind the wheel.

"I know you're concussed and in pain," Sam commented without looking at him, "so you might as well save your energy and stop trying to look like you feel fine."

"I do feel fine," Dean grumped back.

Sam ignored him and started the car.

Dean ignored him right back, tilting his head away from the windshield. The sun was far too bright even with the sunglasses. After a few minutes on the road, Sam reached over and flipped the visor down. Since he was still ignoring him, Dean didn't comment, but it did do a lot to cut down on the sunlight blinding him. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and tried to zone out.

And then the car stopped. Irritation flared. He didn't need to be babied and he didn't need to stop every ten minutes.

Blinking against the groggy, heavy feeling that had settled over him, Dean straightened slightly. His head was resting against the side window and his neck was sore. The throbbing behind his eyes had intensified from earlier and his entire body ached. Struggling to keep his eyes open against the brightness, he rolled his head to the left.

"Why're we stopped?" His voice came out thick and gravelly. Like he hadn't spoken in hours instead of only a few minutes.

"It's alive," Sam said, grinning.

Dean wrinkled his nose, smelling coffee and... "Donuts?"

Sam nodded. "Donuts were breakfast."

"We had breakfast?" Dean pushed himself upright another half inch and squinted at his brother.

" _I_ had breakfast," Sam corrected. "Two hours ago."

"What?" Dean sat all the way up even though every muscle protested and his head drew ever nearer to the inevitable explosion. Looking around left him clueless and confused because nothing was familiar. "What? Where?"

"I picked up donuts and coffee right after we left the motel," Sam explained, pulling the keys out of the ignition and shifting to face Dean. "You fell asleep before we'd gone a mile. So I got coffee and donuts expecting you to wake up. You didn't. So I ate the donuts and drank the coffee and…"

"All of it?" Dean peered around the car.

"Yes. All of it." Sam pushed his door open. "And now I'm going into this truck stop to find a bathroom…"

"And more coffee?"

"And more coffee." Sam smiled. "You feel up to eating anything?"

Dean thought for a moment then shrugged.

"Ok. I'll see what they have. Stay put."

And then the door closed and Sam was rushing into the truck stop. Dean raised an eyebrow.

 _Serves him right for drinking my coffee, too._

Settling back against the seat, Dean closed his eyes. He was having a difficult time believing they'd already been on the road for a couple hours and he'd slept through it all. Massaging his temples, he debated the merits of looking for the painkillers versus waiting for his brother to return and find them for him. The thought of moving was a strong _de_ -motivator, though, so he sat there, hands pressed to his head and waited.

He lowered his hands when the driver's side door opened and the smell of coffee wafted toward him. Thoughts of caffeine and food brightened his mood despite the pain. He accepted the cup Sam offered him and glanced at the bag that was placed on the seat between them.

"What's that?"

"Coffee cake and a turkey sandwich."

Seemed like something he could tolerate. He didn't reach for the bag yet, though. Taking a cautious sip of the coffee first, he was relieved when he didn't have the instant urge to throw it back up.

Sam was getting settled behind the wheel and asked, "How's your head?"

"Still attached. Still throbbing nicely thanks."

"Think you want to try something?"

Dean held out his hand and motioned with a "give me" gesture.

"Ok. Hang on to this for me," Sam said, handing over his coffee.

Holding onto both cups, Dean allowed his eyes to fall closed again. It was making him dizzy to watch Sam moving around.

"That bad, huh?" Sam asked quietly, settling back in his seat.

"It's just..."

"What it is, I know."

"Yeah."

Dean opened his eyes when Sam took one of the coffee cups, and was relieved to see his brother holding out a couple of pills and a bottle of water. Accepting the tablets, he popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with a sip from the bottle Sam handed him. When he was finished, Sam twisted the cap back on the bottle for him and set it on the seat between them.

"Preference?" Sam asked, peering into the bag he'd bought.

"I'll try the coffee cake."

Sam unwrapped it and handed it over.

The scent didn't throw him over the edge, but he wasn't quite ready to try taking a bite. Sam sat there, not staring at him, but obviously waiting.

"You can drive," Dean said. He took a sip of coffee. "It's fine."

"Ok." Sam started the car.

Five minutes later, Dean started eating the coffee cake. Thirty minutes later, they were pulled over on the side of the road so he could throw up the coffee cake.

"I don't know, man, this isn't good," Sam said from somewhere beside him.

Dean didn't answer. He was too busy trying not to throw up again.

"You shouldn't still be throwing up."

Whether he should or shouldn't be, he was. And it sucked.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the car, not daring to stand up from his crouched position in the dirt. The world was performing a slow dip and roll. Grateful that Sam was choosing to remain silent for a few moments, Dean concentrated on regaining control. It took a lot longer than he really thought it should have, but eventually the nausea eased and even the world sorted itself out. When the ground finally felt steady underneath him, Dean took a chance on tilting his head to look at his brother.

Sam was crouched down next to him, a polite distance away, but close enough that he could have caught Dean if he'd pitched forward into the mess. He looked a little hazy around the edges, but Dean could tell he wasn't happy.

"I'm-"

"Don't," Sam cut him off softly. "Don't say you're fine."

Dean glared at his brother, swallowing hard. He put his hands against his knees and pushed himself to his feet. It was a good thing the Impala was at his back or he probably would have fallen on his ass. Sam didn't jump to his aid, so he must not have looked like he was going to fall over.

"Dean, I think we should-"

"Drive." Dean was the one interrupting this time. "I'll be fine now."

Sam huffed in clear disagreement, but made no further argument. He did, however, hover near enough to be of service if Dean had any difficulty getting into the car. Thankfully, he made it without needing assistance and without further embarrassing himself. He pulled the door closed and crossed his arms over his chest to keep from pressing his hands to his head.

After the unfortunate loss of his stomach contents, the action behind his eyeballs had gone from a relentless throb to an all out explosion. A _continuous_ explosion. An explosion coupled with what seemed to be massive butchers knives stabbing straight through his skull.

All in all?

He'd _died_ before and hadn't felt this bad.

The agony stole his awareness for awhile. He felt the car moving, could see the scenery blurring past the windows, but he wasn't fully present. Hands fisted so tight his fingers were cramping, Dean fought to regulate his breathing. He must not have been doing a very good job of it, because he could hear muttering from the other side of the car.

Dean was missing most of what was being muttered, but he picked up on a few words like "stubborn" and "take a deep breath" and "idiot" and "should have been checked out." He got the gist of what his brother was saying, even if he missed a lot of it. Considering how many times he heard the word _stubborn,_ Dean figured he should probably be offended.

But he wasn't. His head hurt too much. The pain had not eased anywhere in his aching, bruised body, but the pain in his head took precedence over everything else. Even the continued unrest in his stomach barely registered.

The muttering died down and Dean was grateful. At some point, he'd closed his eyes and he discovered it was almost impossible to get them open again. So he stopped trying. There was no comfortable position so he didn't even try to move. Moving would very likely result in his head falling off and he wasn't interested in tempting fate.

A hand on his arm drew him from the fog. He didn't open his eyes or turn his head. Everything was pounding and throbbing and pain and somehow he was standing up. Dean's legs weren't quite holding him up the way they used to and he had no idea how he'd wound up walking when he'd just been sitting in the Impala.

He couldn't tell if Sam was saying anything to him; the sharp explosions in his head were too loud. Vaguely, he knew they'd pulled over somewhere and he had enough innate trust in his brother not to be worried about what was happening.

The world slipped sideways and he floated into darkness.

* * *

By the time he'd deposited his completely out of it brother on the bed, Sam had uttered the words _stubborn, stupid,_ and _idiot_ at least five thousand times. Mostly in that order. Because his stubborn, stupid, idiot of a brother had been stubborn enough to push them back onto the road and stupid enough to then lose his late breakfast on the side of the road _seventy miles_ from the nearest motel.

Sweating, huffing, puffing, and generally very concerned, Sam stared down at Dean. Sam had dragged him in from the car, his brother not aware enough even to protest, and eased him onto the bed. Dean had gone boneless the moment he'd been seated and Sam had lined him up with the pillows and eased him horizontal.

Sam shook his head, running his hand over his face. He was pretty sure all Dean needed was a lot of rest. He'd been coherent all day, his pupils were reactive and equal. Good signs. It had been obvious, though, that he was in pain. A lot of pain. Despite several assessments that had proven the contrary, Sam bit his lip and wondered if he'd missed something. Something broken? Something displaced? No, he hadn't missed anything and he trusted Dean. If something had been truly wrong, Dean _would_ have told him.

Sighing, he shook his head again and got to work pulling his brother's boots off. Getting his coat off was more of a participation sport, but Dean wasn't participating in anything except unconsciousness. Sam tried to be gentle, he really did, but it wasn't easy wrestling a coat off of a human being who was dead weight.

Dean slept on despite the activity. Sam tossed the coat aside, yanked the blankets up from the foot of the bed and pulled them over his brother. He praised himself for his foresight in coming into the room and prepping the bed before he'd dragged his brother inside. Once he'd checked his brother's pulse and assured himself that he looked somewhat comfortable, Sam stretched out the kinks in his back and walked out to get the rest of their gear from the car.

They weren't going anywhere.

Not until tomorrow, anyway. The stubborn, stupid idiot might have been fine with sitting in utter agony all the way home, but Sam wasn't. Closing the door quietly, he glanced at his brother. Hadn't moved an inch. Good. Sam locked the door and dropped the bags of gear onto the other bed. The blinds were already pulled closed and he hadn't bothered to turn on any lights so there really wasn't much more he could do to make his brother comfortable.

Considering Dean was completely out of it right now, Sam figured it was the best he could hope for at the moment. He sat down on the other bed and took a deep breath. He'd really hoped that Dean's acceptance of the coffee and breakfast had been a good sign. It had only been the calm before the storm, though. As Dean had spewed up his guts on the side of the road, Sam had made up his mind to find a motel and get his brother into a bed regardless of how much Dean would protest.

The fact he _hadn't_ protested was worrisome. Of course he hadn't even been aware of what was going on around him, which was even more worrisome. Sam sighed.

They'd been through this routine so many times over the years. So many injuries. So many concussions. So much pain. Sometimes it left him almost breathless with despair.

Lowering his head to his hands, Sam tried to get his mind off the subject. With his injured brother unconsciously snoozing in front of him, it was hard to change the subject.

But he forced himself to his feet. He moved the gear off his bed and dug out the laptop. Fully intending to do a little research, instead, Sam found himself doing a little shopping. His headphones had fritzed out on him a couple days ago and, sitting in the quiet of the motel room right now, he realized how badly he needed new ones. Watching a movie right now would have helped pass the time, but without headphones the risk of disturbing his brother was too high.

So he started researching the best wireless headphones available on the market. It wouldn't do him any good now, but if he could have a set delivered to their post office box and waiting for him, he'd be able to enjoy a run when he got home. A run that didn't involve becoming tangled in his headphone cords. By the time he'd purchased his new headphones, set up autopay for their Netflix account, ordered printer ink, gotten caught up in an endless cycle of YouTube videos (muted), he was starving and Dean was still sound asleep.

It surprised him that Dean was able to sleep considering how badly he'd obviously been hurting. On the other hand, Sam knew from experience how sometimes the pain itself was enough to knock you right into the depths of unconsciousness. So he looked into his options and decided a quick dash to the gas station across the street was going to have to do. He didn't want to be gone much longer than that in case Dean woke up and needed anything.

He made a record breaking run to the gas station and back again. A couple hot dogs, a bag of chips, a container of chocolate cupcakes and a few bottles of Coke didn't describe his meal of choice, but it was going to have to do. While eating, he did what could only be considered a very lazy search for any odd happenings in the near vicinity. Relieved when he didn't find anything, Sam finished his lunch and closed the laptop.

Dean was still asleep and Sam tried to think of something productive or useful he could do while he waited for his brother to wake up. After an entire thirty seconds of pondering the problem, Sam decided a nap was as good a solution as anything else. So he flopped face down on his bed and fell asleep a heartbeat later.

* * *

When Sam woke up, it was to the sound of his brother calling his name. Instantly on alert, he pushed himself up from the mattress. The clock revealed he'd been sleeping for close to three hours. He hadn't intended to sleep for that long. Hadn't really intended or expected to fall asleep in the first place.

"Dean?" he called out softly, sitting up on the edge of his bed and looking over at his brother.

There was no movement from the other bed, but he heard Dean mumble his name again.

"I'm right here." Sam crossed the space between them and crouched next to the edge of Dean's bed. "Hey. What's up?"

"We're not home, you hulking deceiver."

Sam laughed. "Excellent deduction, Sherlock."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"Maybe I do."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Do you, though? Do you really?"

"No." Dean groaned and put his hands to his head. "Yes. Maybe."

"Head still pounding?"

"Like a _Def Leppard_ drum solo."

Smiling at the description, Sam said, "You want to take something for it?"

"What I _want_ is to be in my own bed."

"You'll be in your own bed tomorrow," Sam soothed. "I promise. You were in no shape to keep driving. After your spectacular puke fest on the side of the road, you went basically unconscious on me, man."

Dean didn't reply. He was still shoving his fists against his eye sockets and swallowing hard; his entire body stiff with pain. Sam remained silent.

After a few seconds, Dean seemed to reach an agreement with the pain and relaxed a little. He pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, "Heavy duty?"

"I'll grab the kit."

Sam crossed the room and dug through their gear until he found the medicine kit. He found the bottle with the label long peeled off. It was their small supply of narcotic pain killers that they replaced as they were able and used only when absolutely necessary. If Dean was asking for it, the pain was as bad as it looked. He was more coherent then he'd been earlier and the danger seemed to have passed so Sam was ok with administering a dose of the stronger painkiller.

"You need to try to eat something," he said, setting the pill bottle on the nightstand. He went into the bathroom and filled one of the plastic cups with water.

Dean hadn't moved, but mumbled, "Fine."

"Ok."

Sam set the cup next to the pills and went to look through the supplies on the table. He still had half the coffee cake from earlier, but considering what had happened to the last piece, he left it alone. Instead, he went to the mini-fridge for the turkey sandwich, hoping for the best. By the time he crossed the room, Dean had pushed himself up and was leaning back against the headboard.

He looked awful. Regardless of what Dean would claim, he was _ashen._ The bruising wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the dark circles under his eyes were pronounced. His eyes were half-opened and unfocused, but he was mostly tracking Sam's movements.

Dean held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

"Sandwich or…"

"Drugs."

Sam smiled and tapped out a pill into his hand. Dean wiggled two fingers. Hesitating for a moment, Sam gave him a second pill. Dean took them with a sip of water.

"Sandwich."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean didn't look happy, but he took a bite of the sandwich. He glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. "What have you been up to all day?"

"Research."

"For the past four hours?"

"Yeah," Sam lied. "There's a lot going on."

"So what did you find?" Dean asked with his mouth full of turkey sandwich.

Sam shrugged.

"Details."

"There's not much to tell. I mean, I didn't find a case or anything."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You got sucked into the vortex again, didn't you?"

"What? No."

"Sammy…" Dean smiled. "Tell the truth."

"I am," Sam insisted, but he didn't sound convincing even to himself.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Considering you lie for a living, you're a terrible liar."

"Dean, I was doing serious research…"

"No, you weren't." Dean looked amused despite the headache. "What was it? Cat videos? Epic falls? Or were you watching that cake decorating—"

"I was doing research," Sam tried again. There was no way he was going to admit to his brother he'd spent hours watching cartoons and random videos of zoo animals.

Dean rolled his eyes, then winced. "Uh huh. Ok. Sure."

Sam didn't say anything. If Dean was willing to let the topic drop, Sam was more than happy to oblige. He made a mental note to go back later and erase the history on the laptop. They remained in silence until Dean lowered his hands. He'd eaten most of the sandwich and it looked like it had taken all the energy he possessed.

"You ready to lay back down?" Sam asked, taking the rest of the sandwich and wrapping it up.

Dean stared blankly at the far wall, then slowly shook his head. Sam left him alone and put the sandwich in the fridge. Turning, he saw Dean watching him.

"What's up?" Sam asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Nothing."

"Something."

Dean shrugged.

"What is it?"

"I was just...it's nothing." Dean winced and pressed his hands to his head again. "Ice?"

"Sure." Sam rose; happy to do anything for his brother.

Dean didn't usually ask for much, or _anything_ , when he was hurting or sick. To be able to get him something, even something as simple as ice, was a relief. So he hurried out to the ice machine and filled the bucket to the brim. When he returned to the room, he found Dean had slid back down against his pillows with one arm flung over his eyes.

"Sam?" he asked without moving.

"Yeah?"

"You alright? You didn't get banged up?"

"No. I'm fine," Sam reassured as he grabbed a T-shirt from his bag.

He snagged the empty garbage bag from the bathroom's trash can, poured some of the ice into it, before knotting the end and wrapping it in the T-shirt. Leaning over his brother, he tapped his arm until Dean moved it away from his face. Carefully Sam rested the ice pack against Dean's forehead.

"Thanks," he mumbled, hand adjusting the ice pack, then falling away to lay on the pillow next to his head.

"You're welcome." Sam smiled, watching as the tension eased in his brother's body. "Try to get a little more sleep, ok? We'll go home in the morning and you can sleep in your own bed."

For a moment, there was silence, then Dean said, "Awesome."

After giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder, Sam pulled the blankets back up over his brother. And then he stood there for a moment, looking down at him, his heart filled to overflowing with gratitude that his brother was alive. They'd lost each other and _nearly_ lost each other so many times it was staggering. And it didn't make it any easier each time it happened or _nearly_ happened again.

"Why're you thinking?" Dean's soft mumble interrupted his thoughts.

"Why?" Sam asked, smiling.

Dean didn't move, his eyes still covered with the ice pack. "Yes, why."

"I was just thinking about-"

"I asked _why_ not what."

Shaking his head, Sam asked, "What difference does that make?"

"Because I know _what_ you're thinking," Dean mumbled, rubbing his chest. "But why? I'm fine. Freakin' headache. That's all. 'm not dying."

"I know." But his words didn't sound convincing even to himself.

Dean snorted.

"I know," Sam repeated. Because he _did_ know.

"Mmhm. So stop thinking."

Sam smiled. He sat down on the other bed and leaned forward, running his hands through his hair, then clasping them behind his neck. _Stop thinking?_ He shook his head. A lot easier said than done.

"Sammy?" Dean sounded half-asleep already.

"What?" Sam didn't look up.

"Stop thinking. Seriously. Don't make me get up and punch you."

Sam didn't move, tightening his fingers behind his neck. He heard Dean shifting around and then an ice cube bounced off his forehead.

"Sam."

"Yeah. I hear you."

"So _listen_ to me. Get your laptop up and watch those stupid, fuzzy, zoo animals that you love."

"I don't-"

"Fuzzy, wuzzy little koala bears."

"They aren't technically bears," Sam corrected automatically.

"Ha."

Sam smiled, straightening up. He crossed the room, grabbed his laptop, and returned to his bed. A few clicks brought up those stupid, fuzzy, zoo animals he loved and he turned the volume on. He watched the smile appear on his brother's bruised face and the knot of tension behind his ribs eased. Shifting, he pulled his legs up onto the bed and let the video play.

Instead of watching the video, though, he watched his brother's breathing even out into sleep. Then he set the laptop aside and rolled onto his side and closed his eyes even though it was much too early to go to sleep. But Dean would be raring to go in the morning and there would be no putting him off again. He'd still have a headache and he'd still be bruised, but he would be insistent about heading home.

So home they would go.

Sam fell asleep and he didn't dream of evil monsters and half-dead brothers.

He dreamed of home.

 ** _The End_**

* * *

 ** _Hope you enjoyed!_**

 ** _Next up: a season 8 tag, set between the second and third trials._**

 ** _have a great week!_**


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